


Graduation Day

by Blake



Category: Supernatural
Genre: All over the place emotions, Drunk Sex, First Time, M/M, Sam is jealous of pie, Season one/two, Three cheers for poor communication skills, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-14
Updated: 2013-05-14
Packaged: 2017-12-11 21:34:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/803495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blake/pseuds/Blake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean knows that Sam wants him, but he also knows that Sam doesn't want to want him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Graduation Day

**Author's Note:**

> College graduation present for my dear objectlesson. I wish I could have put more porn in it for you, but at least there's pie and some drunk Wincest sex for you.

The worst thing about this is that he knows Sam doesn’t want him as bad as he wants Sam.

Actually, the worst thing about this is that Dean doesn’t care.

Like now, Sam and his 80-proof breath are all up in Dean’s space, heavy on his shoulder and hot on his neck, and Dean isn’t exactly pushing him away. Bracing, maybe, but not pushing.

Sam manages to stand just a tad straighter, enough to pull back and give Dean a squinty, affronted look. Dean keeps his hands on Sam’s biceps to keep him from tottering and breathes through his mouth so he doesn’t get drunk off Sam’s breath fumes. 

Then, Sam is announcing, “You owe me, like, a friggin, blow job.”

The six pack Dean’s been working on in this hotel room hasn’t been enough to mess with his head much at all, but that sentence scatters his brain pretty good. For a few reasons. Like, it was abrupt, first thing outta his mouth since stumbling into the room. And, Sam announced it really serious, like one kindergartener telling another kindergartener he’s being _mean_ , that kind of serious. Dean doesn’t have any idea what debt Sam’s referring to, so that’s kind of confusing too.

Also, oh right, _blow job_.

“What?” Dean asks before he realizes he doesn’t need the sentence to be repeated. He quickly slaps on a different question. “Why?”

Sam rolls his eyes hugely, putting his shoulders into it and everything. There’s tugging at Dean’s hands, which means Sam’s moving away. Dean figures that out kinda late and lifts his hands from Sam’s shirt. “Cos,” Sam sighs, his body swinging heavily in the direction of the mini-fridge.

“What the hell kind of bar were you at, anyways?” Dean asks, louder than probably necessary because his breathing is weird. Anybody’s breathing would get weird when his brother asks for a blow job. Especially anybody who has wanted to blow his brother for like, a decade.

Sam’s bending down to get in the fridge, bending practically in half because he’s so freakishly tall, and his ass is stuck up in the air filling out his jeans real good, and Dean worries about his balance, thinks about putting his hands on the butt of Sam’s jeans to keep him from falling right over. “S’weird, you gettin’ drunk and not me,” he says, moving his eyes to Sam’s spine and trying to glare.

Sam snaps right back upright with amazing balance. “You’re not not drunk,” he mumbles. His eyes are pretty much closed but he makes his way to the little table by the window. He collapses into the rickety chair that’s far too small for him and puts something on the table.

Dean’s eyes flicker back to the hanging open door of the fridge, alarm rising in his chest. His arms start to uncurl from where they’re crossed in front of his chest, because no, no, Sam _can’t_ be.

Sam’s got a plastic fork full of red cherry, flaky butter crust, and fresh whipped cream and it’s headed for his mouth.

“Sammy!” Dean cries out, incredulous. It’s too late. Sam’s chewing the first bite, scooping up half the slice into his fork for the next. “That’s my _pie_.” Dean may be whining, but it’s not like he can do much more than that. He’s in too much shock to go over there and hit Sam like he should.

“I should be the one with pie,” Sam says mysteriously. A lot of him is fucking mysterious right now, getting uncharacteristically drunk for no reason Dean’s aware of, saying shit Dean doesn’t know the meaning of.

“B’that’s my leftovers.” Dean’s outrage finally calms into something that allows him to move forward. He takes two giant steps toward Sam, but he stops short when Sam stuffs the entire remaining half slice into his mouth. He can _not_ believe this just happened.

“Wha’s so great about pie, anyway,” Sam says through the pink cream filling his mouth. And _that_ makes Dean so furious, he would just about reach his fingers into Sam’s mouth and remove pie that would be better appreciated by better people, if that wouldn’t be incredibly weird.

“The fuck’s gotten into you?” he settles for. He backs up, takes a seat on the edge of the bed to cool his anger.

“It’s like, a stupid food to have such a hard on for. S’like, not that special. Don’t get why’re so ‘bsessed with it.”

Among the things confusing Dean is Sam’s tone. It’s like Dean hurt his feelings by liking pie. But then, Sam always sounds pretty whiny and offended, even when he’s not drunk.

But Dean’s more confused by the fact that Sam just walked into their motel room and ate Dean’s _pie_. “Dude, you _ate_ my _pie_ ,” Dean says in wonder.

Sam hums wetly. The horseshoe-shaped furrow between his eyes doesn’t go anywhere as he slurs, “More like ‘hundred blow jobs.”

For a minute, Dean stares at his brother, hoping that something enlightening will happen pertaining to what the fuck is going on in that shaggy head. But all that happens is that Sam glares at the clear, _empty_ , plastic leftover container while trying, and failing, repeatedly to clasp the top lid to the bottom one. For the tenth time, the top lid goes springing away and Sam nearly falls out of the tiny chair, jumping like he had no idea such a sudden movement was going to happen.

So, looks like Dean won’t be getting any answers tonight.

“Bedtime, Sammy,” he sighs, standing up because he knows words won’t be enough to get Sam tucked away in the covers. Gets a shoulder under Sam’s arm, but then he can’t really haul him up ’cause Sam’s other arm is wrapping itself tight around Dean’s waist. Sam’s profile is pressed firm into Dean’s stomach, and it’s hard to breathe. Sam’s hand-- the one attached to the arm snaked around just below Dean’s friggin’ waist-- is sneaking up under the hem of his shirt and grazing the skin, back and forth like a Southern summer day, and he’s humming lazily too, and this is just Dean’s friggin’ luck.

“The fuck you get drunk for, Sammy. Seriously?” Dean’s not sure if he’s trying to push Sam back onto the chair or to pull him upright, and the uncertainty makes the maneuver a failure. Sam’s still breathing ripples into Dean’s t-shirt. It isn’t fair. Isn’t fair, knowing what you want is right there wanting you back, and having to do all the pushing-away yourself.

Dean has known for years that Sam wants him. He’s probably known it longer than Sam has. But just as long as he’s known that Sam wants him, he’s also known that Sam doesn’t _want_ to want him.

“Ate the pie ’cos it’s yours,” Sam mumbles against Dean’s shirt. The heat drops outta Dean’s face, because that’s exactly why Sam doesn’t want to want him. It’s all bad wiring, some adolescent thing about _wanting_ something getting mixed up with _wanting to be_ something, this confused thing inside Sam that he wishes he didn’t have. Dean knows Sam hates the way they grew up, and the way Sam wants Dean is all part of that stuff Sam wishes was different.

Dean, though. Dean doesn’t really wish anything was different. He realized a long time ago the way he loves Sam doesn’t have any boundaries, and he can’t imagine a version of himself that doesn’t want Sam to be his in every way possible.

Sam’s fingers creep further up the skin of Dean’s back, a deliberate touch that startles Dean a step back. Sam’s hands drop uselessly while Dean’s heart tries to stir itself out of its sudden freeze.

Then Sam’s getting up, and Dean can’t really tell if he’s coming for him but he gets out of the way anyways, stepping to the side to see his brother start walking toward the door. He’s about to yell at Sam not to go out that door, but then Sam turns, and Dean realizes, it’s pacing. Wobbly, slow, pacing. “It’s all your fault,” Sam says loudly.

He’d been so sure he wasn’t getting any more information out of Sam that night, it takes Dean a minute to recover from the shock that Sam’s still walking and talking. “What?” he says, shifting his weight to the other foot.

“I’d be graduating today.” Sam confesses this to the ground, on his third tour of the room.

“Graduating? What are you talking about, come on.”

“Stanford’s graduation day. In my academic planner. Memorized the date. Supposed to be today.”

Oh. That makes more sense. Dean swallows down a bunch of guilt but it only barely stays down, a huge flood of it constantly waiting in his gorge. “So, you’d be graduating today, and you’re pissed at me ’cause it’s my fault you’re not there?” he asks, still trying to map out Sam’s breadcrumb trail of information.

Dean’s always conscious of where Sam’s taking up space in a room, he feels it coming, but it’s still so fast it takes him almost by surprise when Sam’s suddenly coming up close to loom over him, hot palm on Dean’s neck and a bunch of sparking air between them.

“No,” Sam says like this is a perfectly normal way to convince someone. Dean waits, getting control ready in case Sam does anything stupid.

“Look, Sam, I’m sorry it’s your graduation night, but--”

“Your fault.”

Dean breaks a little at that. Sure, he knows he’s a selfish bastard, keeps Sam around ’cause he wants him there, makes Sam do things he’d rather not do-- but he carefully avoids making Sam do things he _really_ doesn’t want to do. Not out of good intentions, even, but because he knows it’d scare Sam away, and Dean doesn’t want Sam scared away. Doesn’t want Sam saying, _your fault_. “I know.” Dean’s voice sounds quiet as the motel lamp light, even to his own ears.

“No, you don’t,” Sam says, before he does something stupid.

Sam’s trying to kiss him, Dean realizes. That’s what this is, this mouth moving over his own, these hands in Dean’s hair. Sam’s drunk, and trying to kiss him.

For a second, the guilt at the top of Dean’s stomach drops out with everything else in his chest cavity suddenly swept down and away by a rush of heat.

Then, he remembers. Sam wants this.

“Sam, stop,” Dean mumbles, barely getting it out because Sam’s not letting his lips go. He braces his forearms flat against Sam’s chest and pushes some space between them. Sam’s eyes are closed, his face quiet, free of lines. “You don’t want to want this.”

Sam’s face so quickly furls up into something young, so young. “You don’t understand.” His rushed voice matches the frustration on his brow, coming from years and years ago. “It’s your fault I’m happy here.”

Dean focuses on not breathing too hard. On waiting, because if he moves, he might do something stupid. “Huh?” he says, it rolling out on one of his soft breaths.

“I wanted to be happy doing other things. Supposed to graduate college and be happy ‘bout it.”

“And I took you away from it, I know.”

Sam’s face gets even bitchier, and it actually almost amuses Dean, almost breaks him out of the heaviness of whatever Sam’s upset about. “ _No_. Not your fault I’m here. ‘S your fault I _want_ to be here.”

Dean loses his ground for a second, just _one_ second and Sam’s on him again, big drunken bear swallowing Dean in a massive hug, and that is funny enough to make Dean crack a smile, until he feels Sam’s mouth moving wetly across his neck.

He pushes away. “Sammy, what--” He’s cut short by Sam kissing his lips, and Sam smells so fucking good so close and whiskeyed and sweaty and messy and pressed right up against Dean.

“Why’re you kissing me?” Dean says, quick as he can before fitting his mouth back onto Sam’s. It’s hard to remember why he shouldn’t be doing this.

It’s Sam who pulls away. Dean feels shredded for a moment, but Sam’s not letting him go. Still close, and looking into Dean’s eyes like the words he’s looking for are in there somewhere, Sam says, “Want to. ‘N you want to. ‘N you can’t just string me along for everything _but_ because’s what _you_ need. Not fair, Dean, ‘n you owe me, like, a billion blow jobs for using the fact that I want you just to keep me around t’keep you satisfied, ‘cos I need more, ‘cos--”

Dean shuts him up with a kiss, smiling, even though he’s kind of coming apart. It’s a sick, manic thing, really, kissing the whiskey out of Sam like if another word slips out, Dean’s heart will stop.

Maybe Sam doesn’t want to want this, but Dean’s flooded up to the skin with wanting this, with wanting Sam to want this. He never anticipated how hard it would be to stay smart, when there’s blood and heat and skin and Sam’s smell pressing against him, so easy to believe in.

Should really wait til morning, wait for Sam to talk sober.

“You want me to blow you?” Dean mumbles, Sam’s throat beneath his lips. “Graduation present,” he says, because he needs to get inside Sam and watch him come apart, but he also needs there to be a reason, so if Sam wakes up not wanting to want him, Dean can remember that he did it for a reason other than pathetically, desperately wanting his brother in ways his brother doesn’t want him.

“Yes, Dean,” Sam says, so happy and rumbling with laughter. He looks seconds away from passing out, and Dean should let that happen. But he wants.

Sam’s hands slide out from under Dean’s shirt, where they’ve been hungrily taking up space on his back and chest. Dean closes his eyes, feels Sam grabbing both sides of his face and pulling him close. Sam kisses him, Dean forgets what breathing is, and Sam says, “I want you to blow me.”

And so Dean does.

~~~

Instead of sleeping, Dean lies in the dark feeling bad about himself. It’s not a new thing.

When the sun comes out, light falls glistening on empty beer cans. More than Dean remembers drinking before Sam came home last night. That explains a little. When it’s late enough, Dean goes out for breakfast and coffee and gets some investigating done since Sam partied so hard last night, he’ll probably be useless on the case for another several hours.

He comes back, and Sam has already done a lot to compose himself. The air still smells like the shower he took, and now he’s working on sitting at the table, holding his head in his hands.

“Hey, Sammy.” Sam doesn’t look up as Dean takes the seat across from him with an easy slide and a grin. He pulls the thing he picked up at the gas station and tosses it onto the table with a crackling thud. The sound makes Sam raise his bleary eyes. Dean’s gaze flickers to Sam’s cracked-dry lips, remembers the way they gave under his teeth, how wet they were across his jaw.

“Skittles?” Sam says. Dean looks away, and recovers. That’s all in the past. “I thought you didn’t like fruity candy.”

“For you, Sammy.” Dean tries to smile at Sam and wash away the heat churning in his gut, the still so fresh memory of Sam hard and silken and touchable filling his mouth. He’s decided to keep the memory-- keep it locked in the equation _Sam wants me and tastes perfect but he doesn’t want to want me_ \-- but he’s counting on being able to keep it without it making looking at Sam more difficult than it already is.

Sam’s got the corner of his parted lips crooked up, amused or disbelieving or something. “Huh. You know, it’s been years since I ate Skittles.”

“Yeah, I know. But they were your favorite in the fifth grade.”

Dean watches realization crawl onto Sam’s face, and then looks away, waiting for it all to develop. Dean showing up to Sam’s fifth grade graduation ceremony, the only family representative and five minutes late, because he’d stopped on the way over to pick up a last minute gift of a bag of Skittles. Sam had grinned for a solid hour after that.

Dean realized, earlier today, that he wouldn’t be able to say _congratulations_ to Sam. The guilt of being the reason there’s nothing to congratulate him for would have choked it in his throat. Still, he had to do something.

Sam’s giving him that look, which Dean is ignoring. The look is something like, _You know I remember last night, and the Skittles don’t make the blow job disappear, right?_ And Dean does know all that. But they’re not going to talk about it. Sam wants him, and tastes perfect, but he’s not drunk anymore and he doesn’t want to want Dean.

And Dean bought him a pack of Skittles.

It’s all perfectly clear.

“Um, thanks.” Sam says it as though he’s still not sure it’s what he wants to say. Dean looks over at him again and Sam is eyeing the brightly colored bag, looking a little queasy. Dean smiles, knowing about how appealing artificially dyed sugar is when your stomach was full of liquor less than an hour ago before you puked it up.

He reaches across the table to slap Sam’s shoulder. “Taste the rainbow, Sammy,” he says. He grins victoriously at the peeved look Sam gives him.

And if there’s something else there too, if Sam looks like he wants something, well. Dean knows he doesn’t want to want it.


End file.
